


Maladjusted

by BasilHellward



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Human Hal, Human Tom, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, Tom/Hal if u squint, Wordcount: 500-1.000, but it’s mostly Hal-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 04:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20614724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasilHellward/pseuds/BasilHellward
Summary: TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARMWhenkeep busy, keep sanefails him, Hal returns to his prior mantra.





	Maladjusted

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in my drafts and I was... not in a great place when I wrote it, but I thought I’d post it anyway. Unbeta'd, any and all mistakes are my own. If you see any, please point them out so I can fix them!

There’s a part of Hal’s routine he’s always kept secret. Not on the list, not set by Leo. It’s much older than that — something he’s done since the first time he ever ran dry, fighting tooth and nail back to humanity like a man buried alive clawing out from his grave. But when he’d finally breached, there was no lungful of fresh air unsullied by the taste of iron and red. There’s only an un-welcoming party of ghosts and sleepless nights and, God, the _hunger._ The searing agony of it, like he’s swallowed glowing coals — unbearable, but so too is the thought of reverting. 

And that was what’s commonly known as a lightbulb moment: pain. It was an excellent distraction from the bloodlust and before there was _keep busy, keep sane,_ all Hal had was _hurt yourself, not others._

In his five centuries as a vampire, he’d forgotten how it feels to experience true pain — _human_ pain. And oh, to give in to the sharp pulse of agony that resides in him even now he’s human once more — what sweet bliss that would be, to cut his wrists and have them remain open until he’s cold again. He deserves far worse. 

Five hundred years and in all that time, he’d never once found true purpose, nothing to die or live for. Only the struggle between this Hal and the other and their shared bloodlust — always the blood. It seems that obsession never did die with the demon part of him. He wants blood still. He wants to bleed, as penance for his countless sins. 

Clinging to the pain. Holding on by his fingernails. Tooth and claw. Cleaning and tidying and working and blood. Distractions and fangs and dominoes and blood and blood _and blood._

When _keep busy, keep sane_ fails him, Hal returns to his prior mantra. Even numbers of little scars that stick and stay and don’t fade. His face sore from forced grins because he’s _human_ again, he _should_ be happy. But he isn’t. 

Without the hunger, Hal feels empty. He can’t discuss it with Tom and Alex, who _are_ genuinely — and understandably — happy to get on with their lives. Tom learns what it’s like to live without counting down to full moons and Alex visits her father and brothers in Scotland. And Hal bleeds. Because blood is all he’s known for most of his long life. Because the face he sees reflected in the mirror is as foreign to him as the throbbing in his chest, and neither bring him the comfort he’d so often dreamed they would. His face was the last sight of thousands as he drained their hearts to the very last beat. 

Eventually, as is his long-lost and short-regained human nature, Hal makes a mistake. There’s red everywhere — his wrists, the sink, the tiles on the floor. He went too deep. He’s made such a mess and he can’t clean it up for the room spinning around him and the floor rises to meet his nose. 

Shouting, hands, the screaming of sirens and light searing his eyes. Darkness. 

Then, a warm palm over the back of his hand. The right one, because there’s a needle in his left. The room is quiet save for the rhythmic beeping of a heart rate monitor. Hal’s eyelids are heavy when he tries to lift them. When he parts his lips to speak, all that comes is a thin moan. A sound he’s heard a thousand times before — the last sound his victims ever made. 

“Hal, oh, thank God, you’re awake. I thought— I thought I’d lost ya, mate.”

It’s a struggle to meet Tom’s eyes, it’s so damned _bright,_ but Hal forces himself to brave the lurid fluorescents. Another attempt at speech and there’s a hand in his hair, smoothing it back from his damp white face. Tom’s face is damp too, blotched by tears. It’s easy for Hal to close his eyes against it. 

“Shh, don’t talk,” Tom soothes though Hal still hears the unspoken question: _why?_

“I’m sorry,” Hal says, “I’m sorry, I— there’s— I think—“ A sudden shuddering inhale. Hal feels a tear fall unbidden from his eye to the firm hospital pillow beneath his head. “I need help.” 

Tom’s mouth stretches into the resemblance of a smile and then his mouth is pressed to Hal’s hairline. 

_I’ll help you,_ his lips say without moving, _I love you._

Tom had been his saviour once before and Hal can’t ask it of him again. But he doesn’t need to. Tom gives and Hal takes. Tom gives and Hal heals. 

All Hal is now is skin and bone and scars and blood, but Tom... Tom is kindness and light and happiness and love. Tom is everything worth being human for.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have a minute, leave a comment telling me what you thought, I'd love to know. If you don't have a minute, just leave kudos ;)


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